


if only you'll let me

by endquestionmark



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous, and it’s why she never wanted to bring Owen onboard with the Indominus in the first place. Jurassic World has been Chapter 11ed, and the casualty numbers are still coming in. Claire knows this because the head of legal has texted her a new photo of a different brand of top-shelf whiskey every time they break a new hundred. She would honestly rather jump into the Mosasaurus tank covered in chum than even think about dealing with the media circus currently swarming the hotel lobby, and all the documentation of their partnership with InGen has been seized, and Owen is looking up at her, mouth still wet — for God’s sake — and they’re falling back into the same patterns as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if only you'll let me

**Author's Note:**

> The parallel parking quip is from Political Animals but besides that I have nobody to blame for this but myself. There are no raptors in this story at all.

_Press conference_ , Claire thinks, _what do you wear to a press conference_ , because her usual layered white won’t do, not if she doesn’t want to look overly corporate, but she’s still representing Masrani, even though they’ve taken a major hit on the park and might concentrate on less public-facing interests for a while. Grey? Maybe dove grey, something with an airy cut but some structure to it, and pumps to match, in suede, since they’re holding the conference in the hotel’s meeting room. “Oh,” she says, “there there there — no, up — no, come _on_ —”

“Fuck’s sake,” Owen says, fingers digging into her thighs. “Am I eating you out or parallel parking?”

“I’d hate to see you parallel park,” Claire snaps. Grey suede, and her twisted ankle will just have to cope. She can put it up in the minifridge afterwards or something, as long as it doesn’t visibly swell while she’s at the podium. She rubs her eyes one-handed and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Anyway you _wanted_ me to talk—”

“I didn’t want you on autopilot while you review your itinerary!” Owen says, propping himself up on his elbows.

“This is a crisis situation,” Claire says, “and we have a limited window of opportunity to take control of—”

“—the messaging?” Owen interrupts. “Oh, wait, no, don’t tell me. It’s public perception today, or something to do with corporate narrative or — oh! wait, no, it must be the brand. Always the brand.”

This is ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous, and it’s why she never wanted to bring Owen onboard with the Indominus in the first place. Jurassic World has been Chapter 11ed, and the casualty numbers are still coming in. Claire knows this because the head of legal has texted her a new photo of a different brand of top-shelf whiskey every time they break a new hundred. She would honestly rather jump into the Mosasaurus tank covered in chum than even think about dealing with the media circus currently swarming the hotel lobby, and all the documentation of their partnership with InGen has been seized, and Owen is looking up at her, mouth still wet — for God’s sake — and they’re falling back into the same patterns as always.

“Fuck you,” she hisses, and digs her bare heel into his back. “You want to fight someone, you go find yourself a dive and you get as trashed as you like and you do whatever you want, but you do _not_ do that here, not when I am trying to pull us out of the fire.” She hates getting angry — it’s always so messy, hurt feelings and unprofessionalism to boot — but this is her specialty, her job, and he’s not going to tell her how to do it. “I don’t tell you how to do your job—” he snorts “—much as you probably need it, sometimes, and you don’t get to tell me, either. What? What’s that for?”

Owen’s smiling, and from this angle Claire can’t tell if he’s laughing or smirking or what, though it wouldn’t be a huge surprise either way. “Just thinking,” he said. “Wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of that.”

It’s annoying, but it’s true. He isn’t; Owen is one of the people that Claire’s fighting to protect, now, him and the island he understood and loved so strangely, and the ideas that Masrani ran his company in the ground to preserve. He’s one of hers. “Don’t make me, then,” she says, and twists her fingers into his hair to pull him up for a kiss. He goes easily, eyes falling shut, and mouths at her jaw, and when she pulls harder he makes a soft noise, hips hitching against hers. “Huh,” she says, and does it again, and he hums into her mouth, unabashed and happy. “Want to finish what you started?” Claire says, and shoves at his shoulder with her free hand.

“Want to tell me how?” Owen says, and Claire raises her eyebrows, but he’s looking up at her, smiling, yes, but not mocking; he’s just asking for what he wants, and — how dare he do that, on the one hand, how dare he be that free to want and not compartmentalize it, but on the other hand — she wants it, too, wants his mouth and his big rough hands and for him to make that noise again, animal and pleased.

“Like—” Claire says, and hesitates; this is not language that she has, particularly, and instead she traces the line of his jaw with her free hand, scrapes her nails down his throat, and tucks her fingers between her thighs “—like this,” she says, and concentrates, pressing with the pads of her fingers, slow and thorough.

“Claire,” Owen says, and she tugs his hair in warning. “Claire,” he says again, softer, and then he’s licking between her fingers, down from the knuckles to her wet fingertips, tongue broad and flat, just teasing for now, nuzzling at her. Claire can feel how wet she is, how sloppy he’s getting with it, and she arches up, pulls his hair until he licks over her clit, just a quick flicker, nothing like what she wants or needs.

“Owen,” Claire says, and he does it again; she digs her heel into his back again, and she can feel the rumbling noise he makes then, deep in his chest. “Come on,” she says, and pulls his hair with both hands now, hard enough that it really must hurt, because he gasps, and then licks at her firm and even, exactly the way she wants. “Fingers,” she says, and he gives her that too, blunt pressure and the roughness of his calluses. She isn’t pulling his hair on purpose now, particularly, but she cants her hips up, and he’s got his hand twisted in the sheets, as if he isn’t allowed to touch until she says so, and it’s so much, his broad shoulders under her thighs and the barest press of teeth.

It’s good, so good, and Claire rocks against his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers, and becomes aware that she’s gasping, urgent and breathy. Close — she’s so close — and he presses deeper when she yanks, lets her grind up against his mouth, the curl of his fingers, and she arches and swears, half-cut off when she comes by her sigh, surprised and satisfied. Owen gentles her through it, rubbing circles and letting up on the pressure, and she jerks, slowly untangling her fingers from his hair and releasing the tension in her back, her thighs, watching him over the rise and fall of her chest as he blinks lazily up at her, mouth wet and flushed and swollen.

He’s still hard, hips pressed into the sheets, but there’s no urgency to his expression, no tension bunching up his shoulders. “Come on,” Claire says, when she’s caught her breath.

It’s almost as if Owen takes a second to find the words, pulling himself back to the present. “It’s okay,” he says, and she shakes her head, imperious.

“Up,” she says, “come on,” and snaps her fingers, and beckons impatiently, and he does.

 


End file.
